


May 2017- New Beginnings

by hummelmovinginc



Category: Glee, klaine - Fandom
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, actor!Kurt, actor!blaine, actors!klaine, cabaret, emcee!kurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:48:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24143860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hummelmovinginc/pseuds/hummelmovinginc
Summary: A glimpse into Kurt and Blaine’s lives being actors in New York.
Relationships: Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel
Comments: 1
Kudos: 29





	May 2017- New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> So the idea of Kurt as Emcee in Cabaret came to me and won’t leave. And also I can’t stop thinking about them starting their own LGBT theatre company, so here’s that. ❤️

**_Seven days till closing night_ **

Kurt let out a frustrated sigh, huffing as he scrolled endlessly on his ipad.

He was lying on the couch so he could prop his foot up on the armrest. There was a quiet dripping sound. He took a peek around his screen at the bag of ice perched on his foot which was now half water and soaking the vintage upholstery. He let out another frustrated noise, putting his iPad aside to try and salvage any damage. He was _not_ in the mood to go searching for another cheap couch that perfectly fit with the loft’s shabby chic interior that he had painstakingly and meticulously put together.

 _How long had he been sat there_?

Scrolling through the endless job postings on anywhere he could find them since his agent hadn’t come forward with new auditions the past few days. He knew his time was running short as his first ever job was ending with Cabaret closing in the next week and he _still_ had nothing new lined up.

He heard the shower turn off distance, Blaine’s soft humming getting louder as the door opened, letting out a gust of steam into the rest of the loft. Kurt itched to stand up and crack open a window, but he knew he was confined to the couch. He let out another frustrated noise, crossing his arms, restless and annoyed.

Blaine looked up from towelling his hair. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He cooed, drawing closer, bringing with his the smell of soap and woody aftershave. “Is it your foot? Do you need more ice?”

Kurt mumbled something at the couch before grasping for a throw cushion and hugging it to his chest.

_Why on earth did he decide to dedicate his life to being a performer?_

He felt Blaine’s hand stroking at his knee comfortingly as he squatted next to the couch, only wearing the towel around his hips and another towel slung over his shoulder.

“Being grumpy at the world isn’t going to help,” he jibed playfully. His hair was still wet, curling and dripping water onto his shoulders. He’d just come home from a rehearsal— something new, edgy and up and coming and off Broadway that he had a six month contract in. They’d loved him so much from his Broadway debut as Dmitri in Anastasia and snatched him up.

 _Trust_ _Blaine to be so brilliant._

“I hate this couch. And this ice. I hate the chair in the wings that tripped me over. I hate that Streetcar Named Desire is going to start its run soon and the auditions _are all I’m hearing about._ ”

Blaine’s eyes softened. “Hey, it’s okay Kurt. This post-show limbo is normal, and injuries happen all the time.” He was moving to put a towel under Kurt’s foot, oh so gently making sure he didn’t jostle anything. “Besides, you could always sing Pink Houses by John Mellencamp. I’m sure you could show off Stanley’s masculinity while you expose the truth about the American dream.”

Kurt snorted. “You’re never gonna let that go are you?”

“Nope.” Blaine said cheerfully. “Maybe you can bring Brittany along too.”

Kurt groaned and covered his face. “I was like sixteen and vying for my dad’s love— besides,” he looked at Blaine through the gaps of his fingers. “I thought Pink Houses was about bold interior design.”

The laugh startled itself out of Blaine, as he fell back against the coffee table, reaching up to wipe a tear.

“Oh my— bold interior design— of course you did—“ Blaine was gasping for air, hands at his sides.

A smile crept up slowly on Kurt’s face, his tension dissipating already.

“And why did a flaming homosexual like Tennessee Williams insist on pumping every guy in this plays with testosterone and villainising the gays.”

“Maybe he was vying for his father’s love too.” Blaine said, recovering from his laughing fit, eyes gleaming mischievously. Kurt threw a pillow at him.

“It’s just… as much as I’m never going to be cast as someone like Stanley. I can’t sit around and wait for the next Rent or Cabaret to fall into my lap. I don’t want to work in the diner forever.”

“Is there anything workshopping at the moment?” Blaine was sat on the couch now, scooting Kurt over gently to put an arm around him.

“Nothing that I could go for.” He said dejectedly, nuzzling his face into Blaine’s warmth. “Maybe if I’m desperate I’ll audition for Stella.”

“Give yourself some credit, you’re definitely a Blanche.”

Kurt laughed, pushing away his husband playfully.

“You’re terrible.”

“Mmm but you love me.”

-

Kurt could not help feeling mournful that night in his dressing room. The whole cast could feel it in the air, everyone hugging each other that bit more tightly, laughing that bit more boisterously, singing that bit more sincerely. It was almost time to say goodbye in one week and nobody was ready.

He said a goodbye to his leather boots and he laced them up around his bad foot for the seventh-to-last time. A goodbye to the cream coloured harness, to the bow tie and the black shorts. _God,_ he sure was going to miss his costume. He stared at himself indulgently, appreciating the way he looked as Emcee— of course this was his first role on Broadway. The alluring, bustling Berlin backdrop was _perfect_. He leaned into the mirror to line his eyes black.

“Is your foot better dude?” Jack asked bustling into the dressing room with his gym bag in tow, throwing it on his side of the room. He had a too-tall clumsy carelessness about him sometimes that achingly reminded Kurt of Finn.

Kurt hummed, taking a moment to move the liner pencil away before letting out a self deprecating laugh. “Yeah, much better. I spent the whole day on the sofa sulking about the show closing.” 

“Right? Finishing shows always suck.” He spoke through the protein bar in his mouth as he moved with the fast, practiced practicality of changing into his Cliff costume. “Because we’ve all been together, what? Almost a year? Seeing each other everyday and having this shared experience together everyday… It doesn’t get any easier no matter how many you do— like saying goodbye to family every time.”

“That’s kind of a relief. I don’t want to stop feeling how I feel now about every show I do going forward.” Kurt admitted ruefully.

Jack looked up from buttoning his shirt to flash him a grin. “I love that. Got anything lined up after this?”

Kurt deflated. “Nothing yet. I feel like this might not be my season.”

“Bullshit, you have to make it your season. There’s no way a casting director in New York hasn’t heard of you knocking everyone’s socks off every performance at this point.”

Kurt flushed at the praise— watching as Jack rummaged through his bag, pulling out a bottle of champagne.

“That reminds me, I got this for our dressing room.” He said with a wink, pulling the cork and rummaging for a glass before settling on pouring champagne into Kurt’s empty water bottle. “That’ll have to do,” he laughed.

Kurt couldn’t stop the grin that split his face as he picked up the bottle.

“A toast to the end of your first Broadway show and for the many more to come!”

Kurt laughed helplessly as their plastic bottles clinked together.

—

He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

_Make it your season._

Kurt was sweaty and aching but damn was it rewarding. He was still panting and grinning; the cheering and applause from his seventh-to-last bow still ringing in his ears. He lumped himself into the massive sweaty group hug backstage, several hands and arms reaching for him, ruffling his hair.

“I’ll miss you, you magnificent thing,” came Brook’s voice in his ear as she gave him the world's biggest bone crushing hug.

Most of them had collectively decided against going out for drinks after the show, choosing to save it for the last few days.

Once he had showered and dressed, he found himself on the subway back home, resting his cheek against the hand gripped on the pole, the adrenaline from the show fading. He fought against the urge to doze off, watching the stations appear from the dark tunnels one after the other. If only little sixteen year old Kurt could see him now: exhausted but with a constant giddy buzz in his bones, performing on a Broadway stage every night and living in _New York_ with his _husband_.

He smiled to himself.

_Make it your season._

The swelling inevitability of saying goodbye to his new little family at Cabaret kept washing over him. It felt like saying goodbye to everybody in senior year all over again. That time already felt so far away, he realised with a pang. He sighed wistfully.

 _Maybe he should call Mercedes tonight_.

—

Blaine had waited for him, dinner on the table and candles lit.

“Tired?”

“Mmm was exhausted then sad, but now very happy but tired.”

They sat down, Kurt let himself indulge in the mix of fish veg and potatoes that Blaine had cobbled together. And he let Blaine’s chatter wash over him as the exhaustion seeped into his bones.

“...it’s shaping up though. I can believe we’re in the theatre by the end of this month but I have to trust the process I guess— Kurt?”

Kurt startled up from where he was leaning head on his hand and looked at Blaine guiltily. He must’ve let his eyes rest a little too long. “I’m so sorry, I think the two show day yesterday plus the ride back home is taking it out of me.”

Blaine gave him a sympathetic look. “I’ll finish up and tidy here, see you in bed okay?” Blaine reached forward to plant a quick kiss on his lips.

Kurt gave him a sleepy smile. “My hero. G’night Blaine,” he said, slowly shuffling to their bedroom.

—

**_Six days til closing night_ **

Kurt woke up suspiciously early— the morning sun barely filtering in through their curtains. Trying not to wake Blaine, he reached for his phone to look through his emails. He tossed it to one side dejectedly and sunk back into his pillow.

_Nothing again._

Of course he knew it was still the asscrack of dawn, but logic never quells that same sinking disappointment of hearing nothing new from his agent.

It’s not as if these shows being recycled on and off Broadway had anything new or exciting to offer anyway, he thought irritated.

He turned to Blaine, so he could tunnel close and maybe catch a couple more minutes of sleep.

“Morning, you,” Blaine mumbles, shuffling closer and throwing an arm over him. “I can hear your mind working from here.”

Kurt sighed. “I want to write something.”

Blaine opened a sleepy eyelid out of interest. “Oh?”

“I don’t want to keep waiting for another role like Emcee to show up, because what am I going to do until then? There’s not much out there for people like me— or other people who are visibly… non traditional.”

Blaine’s arm squeezed around him. “Do it… There’s nothing stopping us from creating our own flamingly —“ Blaine reached out to stretch, making that big straining morning stretch noise, “—homosexual theatre company…” his voice dropped off and breathing growing heavy again.

Kurt smiled.

_No, there isn’t._

He leaned forward to leave a light kiss on Blaine’s nose.

“Great thinking Batman,” he said softly.

“Mmm… what?”

“Nothing, go back to sleep.”

—

Kurt was left to his own devices at the loft when Blaine had to rush off to rehearsals in the morning. For a while he could keep his mind occupied by doing small stretches and movements for his foot, getting rid of any stiffness or residual pain. He ran over his songs, humming the cabaret repertoire as he absently stared out the window with a bowl of cereal. He lightly went over routines and choreography. His mind still whirred. He still had a few hours to kill before meeting some cast mates for lunch.

He was on the couch, again. Cheek against the sofa as he stared at his black phone screen on the table. He could remember how devastated he felt in senior year when Tony hadn’t been given to him and he sulked around his Dad’s garage shop after school. _Oh how times just never change_. He also remembered, with a short laugh, his dad telling him, a unicorn without a horn was just a horse.

He reached for his phone, opening up a blank document and typed.

_Make it your season._

_—_

Kurt jumped when the alarm sounded on his phone, he blinked, checked the time and realised he should be on a train to meet everyone by the theatre for lunch in ten minutes.

Kurt Hummel made it out the door in fifteen.

On the train he scrolled through the couple hours of work he’d done, tapping away. There was more than he expected and the story and characters just flowed out of him. It needed so much work but screen and play writing class after another at NYADA taught him to not even entertain that idea until he’d finished the first draft.

So he kept tapping away. The play was an exploration mostly, between the fantastical and the repressed, intertwining these scarily hyper realistic scenes with crazy expressive sequences and dialogue, maybe to express their heightened emotional states or to make the audience feel the true exhilarating truth of this fantasy of freedom. And overarching that is a young man’s exploration of finding himself within a sleepy yet oppressive small town in the thirties— simple yet oh so relatable and truthful. Kurt smiled to himself. God _he was a genius._

—

“Is it autobiographical?” Brook asked, peering at him over her very green smoothie.

“God no— I’m realising that I’m using elements of what I’ve been through too, but it’s not my voice?”

“God it sounds amazing, It’s like I can already visualise it,” piped up Lauren. A few more people expressed their enthusiasm and experiences, before the conversation moved onto something else, with someone else’s anecdote that made Kurt and the whole table cackle with laughter.

Kurt felt so warm with his love for this group of people. He also felt the growing need to write and keep writing some more until he finished draft one. He settled with taking another bite of his salad.

“I’m really gonna miss frolicking around in lingerie with you guys every night,” he announced sorrowfully with an exaggerated pout. 

—

**_Closing night_ **

He could feel the audience tonight. Their watchful eyes— hear the occasional sniffle rustle of a tissue as someone had to wipe their tears.

The energy was thrumming in him. He could feel the hot beam of the light, the sweat dripping on the face, smudging the white paint and rouge on his cheeks. He turned one final time, as he stripped out of the black trench coat as he watched the audience intently. He savoured the barely audible ripple of gasps at the costume underneath.

The music swelled and he sang.

_“Auf wiedersehen.”_

_“A bientot.”_

The light went out and there was that moment of pin drop silence as the theatre collectively held its breath and then—

Intense uproarious applause thundered through him as the lights beamed down on him. He couldn’t help but grin wide, taking a slow Emcee-esque bow. He could hear stomping, whooping and if he squinted past the blinding lights, some people getting up on their feet— more and more people rose before the audience was all up on their feet in a standing ovation.

There was _Blaine and his Dad and Carole, and Rachel, Mercedes, Tina, Sam, Artie, Brittany and Santana— even Quinn._ They stood, eyes shining as they applauded. His heart swelled.

 _Don’t cry._ He willed himself, but it was too late. His throat tightened and he half covered his face as his tears started to fall. Yet couldn’t stop the face splitting grin taking over his face as he blew them all a kiss through his tears and took one more final bow as Kurt Hummel, saying goodbye to his first Broadway show.

—

The sunlight hurt his eyes as he woke up, groaning to cover his face.

“Morning sleeping beauty.” Blaine’s amused face swam into his vision, he stood over him, spatula in hand.

“Blaine— why am I on the floor?”

“You refused to get in bed and insisted everyone stayed up all night in the living room having drunk heart to hearts.”

“Oh yeah… what time is it?”

“It’s 2pm. Everybody’s left now, they didn’t want to wake you, but we have plans with the Cabaret and Glee guys to celebrate if you’re up for it. Burt and Carole are dropping by later too.”

Kurt gave a leisurely stretch and rolled to sprawl on their rug as opposed to the wood floor. “Mmm sounds amazing.”

He could feel Blaine’s a lot closer now and cracked open an eyelid to look at him. He was putting a plate of fruity pancakes on the coffee table next to a big wad of paper— his script?

Kurt shot upwards and immediately regretted it, closing his eyes to get rid of the pounding headache. “Where did that come from?”

Blaine grinned at him, sitting down on the rug and picking up the script. “You asked me last night to go over it to catch some typos.” He nudged Kurt excitedly “So... I thought I’d print it all off to preserve this historical first draft manuscript, which may sit next to Sondheim’s in the New York library in a few years.”

Kurt blinked.

“Have.. you read it?” 

_Is it any good?_ remained unspoken as Kurt suddenly felt the fluttering nerves of someone reading something so… exposing.

“Only the first page or two before I started making breakfast. But Kurt, it’s brilliant.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow and speared the blueberry pancake in front of him. “Hmmm tell me that after you’ve finished it.”

It was torturous, actually.

He didn’t know how long he sat there watching, staring at Blaine intently, as his eyes flitted over the paper. Kurt held his breath as Blaine let out a laugh at something on the page. Held it again as Blaine moved positions to read more closely, lips moving wordlessly. He didn’t know how long it took for Blaine to look up and say. “You’re being very distracting, you know.” 

Kurt pouted, before deciding to use his restless energy to pace in the kitchen. He decided to check his emails— his social media. It managed to distract him as he stood there alone in the kitchen, beaming with tears brimming in his eyes at the glowing reviews and goodbyes to the wonderful show. He bit his lip to fight his big smile as review after review could not help but put “Kurt Hummel” and the words “magnetic” “charming” “scene stealing” in the same sentence.

He poured himself a glass of water. And then another. And then made himself a herbal tea. Stirring the liquid gormlessly. His head perked up as he heard Blaine laugh again.

When his tea cooled enough, he went back to where Blaine sat, script in hand, smiling from ear to ear and eyes sparkling. He closed the script, looked at Kurt and ran to give him a big tight hug, laughing and lifting him off the floor in a little spin.

“Blaine! My tea—“

“Kurt, you brilliant, witty, talented thing you.” Blaine grabbed his face planting kisses everywhere.

“You liked it?”

“Kurt… I loved it. I’m astonished.”

Kurt let out a disbelieving laugh, before jumping excitedly.

“Good, because I really wanted you to play Reynauld.” 

Blaine gave him the biggest shit eating grin, waggling his eyebrows. “Charming, polite and full of suburban oppression Reynauld? playing opposite you as _Larry_ the witty bohemian dreamer and in scene seven they have a steamy—“

“Yes! That.” Kurt felt high of excitement. “also if you could help with the music? I have some lyrics but composing was never my strong point.”

“God yes Kurt, I’d love to.”

“And I could ask Artie to read it and we could discuss—“

“Yes! Yes! All yes!”

  
  
  


**end**.


End file.
